


keep me in your glow

by mellodrama



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Substance Abuse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24337705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellodrama/pseuds/mellodrama
Summary: And on mornings like these, it's just the two of them together, sharing a wavelength no one else is privy to and confined within a timeline of their own. They set the rules, they set the boundaries, and it’s safe. It’s sacred. It’s them.
Relationships: Lola Lecomte/Maya Etienne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 199





	keep me in your glow

**Author's Note:**

> mayla nation how we feeling?? here's something i wrote because i can't stop thinking about that hug & the possibilities of where their story might go!! this is basically 3000 words of domestic fluff set in a post-season six future. warning for brief mentions of things discussed in the show, but absolutely nothing graphic. there's also a quick mention of sekou/max because lamifex said lgbt rights!!
> 
> title from the song "golden hour" by kacey musgraves.
> 
> june 7th edit: i wrote this right after the "when you're not around i miss you" scene so it's obviously very non-canon after yesterday's events, but i still hope you enjoy it, and i hope i captured some of the tenderness that samedi 8:18 provided (whomst else is yearning...)

It’s the first time in a while that she’s woken up this early.

Sure, school always pushed her out of bed at the crack of dawn, but on weekends? Public holidays? She’d stay under the covers for as long as she could get away with. Sometimes it was because she was still sleeping off a high and she wanted to avoid the stinging light of day. Sometimes the hangover wasn’t even that bad, but the shame of her actions would solidify heavy in her stomach, and moving meant having to _deal_ _with it_ , and her way of _dealing with it_ usually involved lashing out at people she was projecting her own anger on.

So burrowing into the sheets was always a pretty easy decision.

That’s changed now, of course. Being sober and happy – genuinely, truly happy – does that. Now when she sleeps in, it’s because her shifts at the art mentoring program don’t start until the afternoon, and she allows herself the luxury to enjoy guilt-free mid-morning naps. That’s not to say she’s transformed into a sloth who constantly dazes around in bed all day, because it’s the quite the opposite: her therapist suggested she find a healthy pattern of behaviour to channel her energy towards, which means rising early three times a week to jog around the neighborhood. Even on those mornings, however, she was never up as early as she is now, though there’s no nightmare plaguing her dreams, no loud and obstructive noise drifting in from the windows. There's no real reason to be awake, yet here she is nonetheless - alive, well-rested and safe. 

It’s not complete sunshine and rainbows, seven days a week. She still has her moments, as she suspected she would. Eliott wasn’t lying when he said those feelings don’t ever really go away no matter how content with life you are. No matter how _in love_ you are.

_In love._

3 months in and even just picturing the words makes her heart start to beat in an irregular rhythm. She presses her palm to her chest, tries to force it to slow down – it’s too soon, surely, and she shouldn’t spit it out just because her heart is determined to send her into an early cardiac arrest.

She lets her hand drop back into the warm cocoon of the sheets. She doesn’t dare move again – one single twitch and she’ll be making contact with Maya’s hip, where her singlet has ridden up to expose a patch of smooth skin. She’s a deep sleeper, all sprawled limbs and gentle snores, but they pried the bedroom window open last night, the Parisian air cool and crisp at all times, and Lola knows her body’s probably already a little chilled now that she’s awoken from her slumber. The last thing she wants is to cruelly draw Maya out of her dreams by pressing cold fingertips to her hipbone. For one, she’ll no doubt receive a sleepy elbow to the ribs for her efforts. And anyways, she obviously has a vested interest in Maya, which extends to the continuation of Maya’s good health, which means forcing her girlfriend to wake up a few hours before their alarm rings for no good reason other than a fluttery desire to touch, is not necessarily on her agenda, and –

 _Shit_.

Yeah, she’s in love.

Maya hasn’t verbalized it yet either, but it’s coming. They both know it, the same way they once both knew that this is what they were hurtling towards: lying side-by-side when the sun goes down and when it rises again the next morning. Carving out a space where there’s no pressure or any uncomfortable expectations of _more_ or _further._ Just the two of them together, sharing a wavelength no one else is privy to, confined within a timeline of their own. They set the rules, they set the boundaries, and it’s safe. It’s sacred. It’s _them_.

It’s part of the reason it took longer to make their relationship official, more than most couples typically would. Once she started with her new therapist – one who specializes in grief-related trauma, understands the nuances of addiction and, as an added bonus, is super gay-friendly – there was an unspoken rule that nothing would go beyond their usual light flirting and occasional touch. Just until life was a little less fragile, her heart a little less brittle.

And it helped. They didn’t create a strict timeline with it though, there was no _okay, we can date after six months of sobriety, lets count down the days_ or whatever. They just kept seeing each other, alone or within a group setting, and did their thing. There were hugs and compliments and weekly check-ins from both of them. Text messages in the morning – _all good? xx_ – and brunches on Sunday, sharing stories and worries and thoughts over avocado toast and homemade fruit salad (she won’t admit it lest under gunpoint, but having a vegetarian for a best friend-slash-girlfriend has its perks, meal-wise).

When the anniversary of the car accident loomed, Lola made sure to offer space, concerned her presence might trigger a long-buried pocket of anger in Maya, but it wasn’t necessary. Maya visited her parents’ joint tombstone in the morning and met up with Lola in the afternoon, where they nestled against a wall in some abandoned building La Mif had scouted but not yet explored. Offering her an earbud, Lola clicked play on a pre-made playlist (titled _pour luquette_ ; she promises to explain it one day) and they sat in comfortable silence, shoulders pressed together.

When the sun started to sink below the skyline, they’d stood to watch it set together, hands brushing as dusky blue melted into streaks of yellow and pink. And then as those too soon faded and the lights of the city began to glitter in the horizon, Maya spoke.

“Maybe you could come with me next time.”

Lola nodded, suddenly self-conscious of her voice but desperately wanting to preserve the sanctity of the moment. She engulfed Maya in a firm hug, letting her hands run down to cup around Maya’s waist, where she could vaguely feel the outline of the scar against her palm, thick and raised.

If she squints, she can see the scar now, too.

As if somehow reading her mind, Maya shuffles slightly in her sleep, hooking her arm up onto the pillow and doing this squirmy motion that Lola takes note of to impersonate later. It exposes more of her back, the singlet so thin and flimsy it might as well not be there at all, and previous reluctance be damned – there’s no way Lola will be able to drift back asleep now, so she decides to make the most of the situation. She can always make up for it later, maybe with some breakfast. (Again: vegetarian perks. She now knows how to cook more than three meals.)

She slowly dances her fingertips up Maya’s spine, pauses when she reaches the base of her neck. The chunks of her hair that haven’t fallen over her face are fanned across her shoulder blades in faded purple strands – it needs to be dyed again in a few days, and Lola has already promised to be there and help.

And by help, she means she’ll sit on the edge of the tub in the apartment’s cramped bathroom and try her hardest not to laugh when Maya’s hair inevitably straightens and flattens in a really unnatural looking way. The last time it happened, Lola’s lip almost bled from how much she was biting down, but she couldn’t help it – there was just something about it that reminded her of Morticia Addams, and she’d said as much.

Maya had twisted in a deliberately slow spin, pointed her comb half-menacingly. Her eyes dragged over Lola’s hoodie, skinny jeans, and sneakers – all predictably black. “Okay, _Wednesday_.”

A pause, and then: “Wait, ew.”

Of course, that only made Lola laugh louder, brighter, and any attempt Maya was going to make at defending herself (“Fuck! _Not_ _like_ _that!_ ”) was cut off by the sound, as clear and as striking as a bell in the dawn. So instead, she’d crossed the floor in two quick steps and pressed her lips to Lola’s forehead before returning to the sink just as swiftly. That was something she could do freely now: she could kiss Lola’s cheek, or sweep gentle fingers across her collarbones. Bump their shoulders together or squeeze her hand in the middle of the grocery store’s dessert aisle.

Still, she knew what Lola was sometimes like with physical touch, knew how exhausting it was to unlearn years of avoidance and discomfort. Hence the hasty return – she usually let Lola take the lead with the more heavier, intimate stuff, too, but Maya didn’t mind; as she rinsed the dye from her comb, she could practically feel Lola’s smile warming her back. _As radiant as the sun itself_ , Maya would whisper later that night.

Even now, the memory of that day tugs at the corner of Lola’s mouth and she decides to hide the smile against the bare skin of Maya’s shoulder. Her lips must be colder than expected because she can feel the beginning of a shiver trembling underneath her. She presses her lips firmer this time, and then starts to trail a line of soft kisses upwards until she reaches the juncture between neck and shoulder. Long ago, she’d buried her face there in a morning so similar yet so different to today’s. She remembers how natural it had been, even then, to curl her fingers tightly against Maya’s shirt and let herself be held in return. Emotionally and physically, she’d felt so gross, filled with such self-hatred, but for one moment, she let all of that go and allowed herself to indulge in that touch – told herself she deserved to be held and cared for, and until Maya had ghosted her, she’d maybe even started to believe it.

She inhales, lets the scent of clean sweat and strawberry-kiwi shampoo wash over her. It’s one of her favorite things; there’s a reason she has so many of Maya’s sweaters hanging up in her own closet. She never did return the one Maya offered her _that_ morning. By the time they’d made this – this _thing_ between them – soft and tangible and real – official, there was no reason to.

Besides, it’d be hypocritical of Maya to kick up a fuss about it – she’s got one of Lola’s patented black hoodies hanging over the chair opposite the bed. Lola’s stayed the night enough times to know she usually shrugs it on the morning after small gatherings: Lola brings the music, La Mif bring the snacks and games, and Maya provides a space where they can all chill without having to worry about stuff like curfews or seedy buildings.

Jo always grumbles that Maya’s technically not providing anything the way the rest of the gang are, and given that she already works at the supermarket, she could _at least_ have the decency to shoplift them some salt-and-vinegar crisps. Is she an environmental anarchist or _not_?

“What do chips have to do with the environment?”

“You’d be refusing to engage in capitalism, which harms the whales, no? Do you even believe in the leftist values this country was built up on, or have you secretly been a conservative double agent this whole time? I should’ve known when you ditched us during frisbee!”

“You’re welcome to find another tiny and plant-filled apartment to spend the night at,” Maya said, amused. “I’m sure you have lots of options.”

“And leave you alone? Never.”

“I didn’t say I’d kick _all_ of you out.”

The last part is punctuated with a smile directed at Lola, whose cheeks erupt in pink flames. Jo tries to rally the troops in teasing them both but finds Sekou and Max, the traitors they are, hiding quiet laughter in each other’s shoulders. She gasps dramatically.

“The single-phobia _jumped_ out.”

The thought makes her grin again, but it must be one movement too many, because she feels Maya start to stir. Deciding to be as annoying as possible, she stiffens and lets her weight drop, making the task of waking up even more difficult for Maya.

There’s a mini struggle as Maya tries to push Lola off her whilst the latter maintains her position, draped heavily over the former’s back. When Maya, realizing what’s happening, exaggerates a huff and seems to give up, mumbling about how _this is why you don’t date community service girls_ , _they’re nothing but trouble_ , they’re both quick to dissolve into laughter, and Lola slides off to catch her breath. Maya takes the opportunity to turn so she’s on her side, the two of them suddenly facing each other as their heads rest on the same pillow.

In this position, Lola can see every detail of Maya’s face, from the small cross on her earlobe where the piercing hole has closed, to the single mole jutting out under the curve of her left eyebrow. When the first milky rays of light stream in from the window and illuminate the secret cluster of light freckles on the side of her nose, it hits Lola all at once like a punch to the gut: if she can study Maya, then Maya is surely able to study her, too. She must see all of her flaws, her inadequacies and weaknesses, clearly displayed out in the open; these terrible, unforgivable sins, and yet –

And yet she’s still here. They’re both still here, dappled in weak sunlight, chests rising and falling with each breathe.

Lola finds herself exhaling slowly through her nose at the realization. It must come out all shaky, as if she’s on the verge of tears, because Maya’s eyes immediately fill with concern.

“Hmm? You have a scary dream?”

“No,” she murmurs, running her thumb against the swell of Maya’s cheek. “Just not used to seeing you without all that eyeliner.”

Maya chuckles, but immediately clasps Lola’s wrists to bring their joined hands towards her mouth, where she presses a succession of kisses against the bruises dotting Lola’s knuckles – she’s taken up boxing lessons at the local women’s center, where they teach free self-defence classes for teen girls. It’s yet another form of release, and after everything from last year, it helps her to feel safer. She doesn’t need to fake bravado anymore, not when she knows how to disarm any potential attacker, and not when she knows it’s okay to let yourself be vulnerable anyway. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to ask for help.

“You don’t think the extra dots are sexy?”

God, Lola can’t help the smile that threatens to take over her entire face. Maya _knows_ something is off, but that from her response Lola is too overwhelmed to talk about it right now and that they’ll just have to discuss it later instead. It’s a sure thing too, not just an empty, unspoken promise, because they refuse to let their relationship sink under the weight of white lies and heavy silences. It’s too important for that to happen. They’ve both worked too hard.

“Not as sexy as that whale-saving suit.”

“You haven’t even seen it!” Maya laughs, dropping their hands and moving hers to rest on Lola’s waist. She draws an infinity symbol with a blunt fingernail; the repetitive, fluid motion nearly undoes all the progress Lola has made over the past hour to reign her heartbeat back to a normal pace.

“I’ve imagined it plenty of times. Trust me.”

“I do.”

Two words. Two simple words. They’re true, too: jokes about whale suits aside, Lola knows they’ve made plans to visit the beach come summertime, and the closer they crawl towards the date, the more amount of time she’s spent lately imagining Maya in a bikini. It’s _not_ her fault, either. Maya seems to have an endless affinity for wrapping herself up in coats, jackets, and sweaters, all fluffy and warm, and yeah, Lola would be lying if she said she didn’t find it _cute._ But she’d also be lying if she said she hadn’t been wondering about peeling off those layers, one by one, and going from there.

She knows from their many sleepovers that Maya’s simultaneously soft _and_ hard, a mix of defined muscle and gentle curves. She works out and watches what she eats, but she’s not lanky the way Lola is, and Lola is only mildly obsessed with that fact – she often thinks about what they look like together, out in the streets or tucked away in bed, and finds herself giddy with the balance the image presents. A perfect yin and yang: two different halves recognizing a similarity in the other and meeting in the middle to form a whole.

It’s the kind of thing Maya would say, maybe. All that stuff about equilibrium and peace. Lola can’t say she believes in it completely, but it doesn’t really matter anyway, because that’s what makes them _them_. They don’t need to agree on everything or share similar obsessions. (Although they both do have a secret penchant for dumb slasher flicks, and Lola makes a mental note to thank Eliott later for the constant stream of recommendations he texts her when it’s a slow day at the store).

They’re mostly different, but it’s okay. They’re similar where it counts, where understanding is something that can’t be forced, only lived: parental death, alcoholism, being an outcast. And even when the differences seem like vast chasms between the two – Maya will never understand firsthand the sick thrill in taking pills from anonymous, older men, or the desperation that leads to flirting with them in shadowy clubs as a form of self-harm; Lola doesn’t think she’ll ever have that same innate desire to do more than her fair share of planet saving, and even when she was isolated, she wasn’t ever truly alone the way Maya was in her foster homes – it’s still okay. They make it work. Neither wants to return to the _before_ , not when the _now_ and _soon_ have so much to offer. And for once in her life, the thought of all that opportunity and all that time, spread out and lying ripe in waiting before her, begging her to make that jump, doesn’t fill Lola with dread. Not when she has this on the other side.

“I do.” Maya whispers again, drawing Lola out of her thoughts. She’s stopped tracing the pattern on Lola’s hip and has instead moved to cup her face with both hands. Lola effortlessly melts into the embrace, pulling her own hand up to circle Maya’s wrist, essentially locking her there, but it’s an unnecessary move. Maya isn’t going anywhere.

Two words. Two simple words.

But the promise of so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! comments & kudos are much appreciated; this is my first time writing for skamfr.


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